


Pairings

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-07 00:36:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11047632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: A drabble I wrote on Tumblr, per request. Prompt: "I didn't know you collected things."





	Pairings

**Author's Note:**

> The Magicians doesn't belong to me. This is just for fun. Feedback is magic! Enjoy.

Pairings 

By Lexalicious70

 

“I didn’t know you collected things, Eliot.”

 

Eliot turned, his heart bolting in his chest like a horse freaking out at its first big race and dumping its rider instead of charging toward the finish line as he slammed the dresser drawer with a bump of his ass.

 

“I don’t! Don’t be foolish, Quentin, and did becoming a magician make you forget your manners? Doors are for knocking on!”

 

“But last week you told me not to bother knocking.”

 

Eliot’s eyes darted left for a moment and then he raised a hand.

 

“I did! Yes. But never mind what’s in my dresser! A man’s drawers are a kingdom unto himself!”

 

Quentin crossed the room, giving Eliot those damnable brown puppy eyes he hadn’t been able to look away from since the day they’d met, six months ago, outside Brakebills.

 

“C’mon El! Show me . . . I bet some of them are really neat!”

 

“Neat?” Eliot’s lips puckered up into an expression of distaste, and Quentin rolled his eyes.

 

“Fine, fashionable, then! Just show me? Please?”

 

“Not the thing I’d hoped you’d be begging me to see after six months . . .” Eliot murmured as he turned toward the dresser, and Quentin furrowed his brow.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing! Here.” Eliot yanked open the long drawer. It was big enough to hold maybe a dozen folded shirts, but instead it was lined with rows and rows of socks. They were arranged according to style, as organizing by color would have been impossible—the drawer looked like a cotton-poly blend rainbow. Some were dark and dressy with subtle patterns, but others had brighter colors in a mix of argyle, polka-dot, and stripes. Toward the back were several rows of soft, fuzzy socks in pastel blues and magenta. A few had cartoon characters on them: Daffy Duck, the Grinch, Garfield, and—what was that tuxedo kitten from the Warner Bros. cartoons called?

 

“Pussyfoot.” Eliot said as Quentin touched the socks with the cat’s likeness, and Quentin looked over his shoulder.

 

“What, you can read minds now?”

 

“No. But you always wrinkle your nose when you’re thinking about something.” Eliot smiled. “I just assumed.”

 

“Good guess. So how come you collect socks?” Quentin asked, and Eliot looked down at his collection over Quentin’s shoulder.

 

“I enjoy their whimsy, I suppose. And my feet are always cold . . . and because my grandmother knitting me all different kinds of socks is one of the few pleasant childhood memories I have.”

 

“You had a grandmother?”

 

“Yes, Quentin! For Christ’s Sake, I wasn’t hatched out in the barn with the chickens!”

 

“No, I know, it’s just—you’ve always hinted that your family was kind of awful. I’m just surprised.”

 

“My parents were awful. My gran was actually quite nice. She was my mother’s mother, and she lived with us until I was about seven. She died in her sleep. After we found her and my parents went to make arrangements, I sat with her for a little while. You’d think it would frighten a seven year old, being left alone with a dead body, but to me she was still gran. And when I got sad enough to cry, it was because I realized that she’d never knit me another pair of socks. I guess that’s why I have so many now.” Eliot reached out and straightened the rows. “Every time I get a new pair, I think about how she was a good part of where I came from. One of the few things from that time I ever loved . . . and who maybe loved me.”

 

Quentin closed the drawer and turned to throw his arms around Eliot, hugging the taller man to him. Eliot went motionless for a few moments before he carefully put his arms around Quentin in return.

 

“What’s this for?” He asked softly.

 

“A thank you. For sharing yourself with me.” Quentin’s dark eyes tipped up to Eliot’s amber ones. “You told me when we first met that you bonded fast. I’ve kind of been waiting.”

 

Eliot let his arms rest around Quentin’s shoulders. He liked the way they fit together. He wondered if their lips would do so with the same ease.

 

“Eliot?” Quentin’s voice broke into his thoughts. “What are you thinking about?”

 

Eliot let his hands slide away from Quentin’s shoulders, one hand ghosting through Quentin’s collar-length hair.

 

“Things that go together, I suppose.” He said, and Quentin reached out to snag Eliot’s left hand before it fell away from him completely. He slipped his fingers between Eliot’s, interlocking them.

“Like this, maybe?” He asked, lifting their hands, and Eliot smiled as he tugged the shorter man forward.

 

“Or these.”

 

Quentin sighed as their lips joined with ease, as if the kiss was knitted together by some clever pair of cosmic hands. Eliot closed his eyes as he allowed hope to enter his heart.

 

_A perfect match._

 

 


End file.
